Diagnosis Demons

** Names and Locations have been altered in this post for the privacy of the amazing staff who cared for me.

I could tell you about the beginning of my life, but it’s far more interesting to tell you about the beginning of the end.

My mother’s stiletto heels clipped loudly with every step down towards the revolving white doors of ‘Addelsex Neurological Hospital’. The entire scene ahead of me was a bland grey colour except for the illuminous blue lettering of the hospital name; the air was equally as quiet, broken only by my mother’s inappropriate footwear and the occasional panicked screeching of an ambulance rushing past.

As I made my way through those revolving doors, the inside was an explosion of colour. It felt as far as it could from the dreary exterior. At this point, I felt no rush to get up to outpatients, I glimpsed over at my mother who was pacing, loudly in those heels, looking at the directions signs. “Oi mum, let’s grab ourselves a coffee before heading up to outpatients, shall we?” I exclaimed this, far louder than intended, but Mum swung round and nodded. I took her by the hand and scurried off towards the bright green Starbucks sign, I’d grown to know and love.

Turns out Starbucks at the Hospital were the place to go, there was no line so I wandered straight up and ordered our drinks. We were on our way to the outpatient’s clinic with a hot chocolate and latte to hand within moments.

Until this moment I’d thought I wasn’t all that worried about this referral, after what had seemed like the millions of doctors who had seen me previously with no answers or progress, but this takeaway mug of hot chocolate seemed scalding and this corridor seemed longer than Land’s End to John O’Groats. I couldn’t get my mind straight, Was I nervous? Was this another day off work, for no answers? I could feel frustration and anger building within me, and I began to speed up walking. If this appointment was going to be as useless as the rest, and we would still have ‘not the foggiest’ what was going on with my body, then I wanted to get it over with. I had a hot date planned with a cup of tea this evening I would much rather be getting back to.

 I finally saw the Clinic 12 door and wandered inside, the queue to reception was backed up to the door, I had some time to get my thoughts in order and breathe; my mother’s ‘clip clop’ noise could be heard rushing up the hallway as I’d left her behind in my frustrated state. Her curly brunette hair popped around the door, just as I got to the desk and handed my letter over to the receptionist. “Take a seat over there” a clinical voice from the receptionist stated, my mums arm touched mine and guided me over to the waiting area. “Hun, don’t go into this one with your guards up, he may have no more answers but maybe this one will. Who knows? This is a Neurology Hospital after all!” My mother spoke softly into my ear as I sipped on my now lukewarm hot chocolate.

I’d often envied my Mother’s optimism. If no-one for the four years before had known the answer, why would this Doctor be any different. I knew she had held onto hope so tightly that these symptoms and seizures would ease over the last few years but while they continued to worsen and I lost hope, her spirit has grown stronger and she’s been fighting for answers on both of our behalves.

I was soon knocked out of my train of thought thinking about my Mother’s bravery through this journey so far, by a powerful voice… “Miss Jennifer McCrea”. I stood straight to attention, walked to this gentleman, who bared striking resemblance to a younger ‘Robin Williams’ and shook his hand. “Lovely to meet you,” I uttered, albeit awkwardly. No one can ever teach you how to first address someone who’s seen pictures of your brain before they’ve even seen your face.

As we walked to the appointment room, I got a glimpse of my mother’s face, I could tell we’d both made the ‘Robin Williams’ connection upon his appearance because we both burst straight into laughter upon catching a second of eye contact. My consultant stopped in his step and turned around. “Everything okay?” he muttered. “Just nerves” I spat out nervously with my head hung. I can only imagine the shade of red my cheeks went in that moment. We entered into this small room, barely big enough for an examination bed and two chairs, yet they’d squeezed a small desk with the computer on and another stool in here. It was a snug fit but we just about made it in.

The Consultant started his appointment in this typical fashion, “So Miss McCrea, I’ve been through your medical records, I’ve seen 18 months of convulsive seizures and over 4 years of mood and anger management problems. There seems to be severe problems with unmanageable migraines. Am I correct in thinking you also ‘just blackout’ as well as have these convulsive seizures? Are there also episodes of ‘confusion’ completely separate to this?” I sat there opposite this man, frustration building within me. Of course, I’m sure. Did he expect me to turn around and say I was suddenly mistaken and these last four years of bothering hundreds of NHS practitioners had been over an error! I kept my building rage inside. Many months of counselling and ‘child psychologists’ had helped teach me how to do this, because my symptoms were ‘obviously just hormonal and we didn’t want to bother a neurologist’. Yet there I was, sat in front of Neurologist. Recapping all my symptoms had me doubting that this consultant had any answers at all, I suddenly felt a bit of a slump in my mood. Still no answers eh? Well maybe he’ll start some more investigations.

The Consultant stood to his feet, he wasn’t finished with speaking and seemed to be mid appointment so this struck fear into my heart. I looked to my mother whose eyes were fixed dead upon him, the colour drained from her face. She was icy white. Out the corner of my eye, I saw him place something into his pocket. I couldn’t turn my head quick enough to see what it was. I looked to my Mother. She turned to me, and shrugged. I honestly don’t think she was any wiser than I was at this point. The 30 seconds it took my consultant to be seated again, seemed longer than anything leading up to this moment in my life so far.

“Jennifer,

After reviewing your scans and notes. There is one obvious diagnosis, this was present on your first scan, and has a more substantial presence now.

Jennifer, your symptoms and problems have been caused by what we believe is a malignant growth on your brain. We believe this to be a glioma of some sort and will need to be examined by biopsy and surgery at the soonest possible time when this is safe and sensible to do so.”

I felt sick. What did this mean? Surgery? Malignancy? Growth on my brain? My brain was running faster than I could keep up. I glanced over at my mother, who was calm and collected. She turned her body in her seat, “So, Mr. Santarn; Is this a brain cancer we are considering here?” “I am very sorry Ms McCrea but that is how we are treating this, the type of tumour we suspect this is, is always considered cancerous clinically.”

I stood up. I couldn’t take this. “Mum ask the questions. Make some notes. I need a cigarette. Thank you for your time, but no thank you to any more of it today.” I spat those words out quicker than a cheetah in pursuit, I then span on my feet and left the room. No matter how hard I tried, my feet would not move fast enough. I wanted to get out of there. I felt stuck, my stomach was sinking, my head was spinning. I felt faint and dizzy. I just sunk to my knees. Head in hands on the stone-cold floor of the corridor. I’ll stay here, I thought to myself. I can’t face anyone.

There was soon, my mums hand on my shoulder. She guided me up and took me to the car, everything at this point was a blur. All I can remember clearly except the blinding street lights were her kind and gentle words of “I have the answers, whenever you’re ready. We can do this entirely on your terms. Your body, your rules. I’m with you one hundred percent.” She was so soft spoken, and tenderly kissed me on the forehead before I climbed into the car.

The drive home seemed far longer but much less clear than the drive to the hospital, the sun had gone down, and the sky was dark, through my teary blurred eyes I could only see the streetlights as they flew past.